


Amazing Grace

by Todesengel



Series: Arc o' Whore!Keith [5]
Category: Voltron: Lion Voltron
Genre: M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-14
Updated: 2005-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:30:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Todesengel/pseuds/Todesengel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wonders if his team actually held a meeting to determine who fucked him any given day</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amazing Grace

There were only two things that Keith was any good at: fucking and fighting. He was also rather good at faking -- faking confidence, faking love, faking knowledge, faking innocence, faking indifference -- but to his mind, the faking was really just part of the fucking, so it didn't really qualify as a separate skill. It was easier to move up in the world if he could be the brassy street kid for this man, the innocent waiting to be corrupted for that one. He wasn't ashamed that these were his only skills. The fucking had brought him out of the gutter and the fighting had landed him this job, so in all he was really very grateful. True, the likelihood of his death was just as high here on Arus as it had been in the narrow alley where he had been born, but at least his death would _mean_ something now. At least he wouldn't be just another dead body for the sweepers to collect and toss into the continually roaring pyres; those ever hungry flames that would sometimes consume bodies that were too weak to run away, yet not weak enough to die. He was pretty sure that he'd be mourned, if he died here; at the very least, his team would surely miss having him around as a convenient fuck.

It was Monday, and that meant that tonight was Sven's night. Keith liked the Sven nights the best -- largely because he still hadn't gotten over the fact that Sven was a complete and utter bottom. Big, bad Sven, who'd given most of the students at the Academy nightmares; who had killed in cold blood, showing no more emotion for the ending of a sentient life than he showed for the pruning of an errant branch on a bonsai; who was everything that Keith was not -- confident, in control. Sven, who begged and crawled and blushed, who made such soft, wet noises when Keith thrust into him, who spread his legs so willingly, so lewdly, yet looked away in blushing shame. It was fascinating and erotic and Keith enjoyed being the one who could make big bad Sven blush and mewl and pant and beg and catch his breath as he came.

But the small, secret part of him liked Sven nights the best because Sven never needed him to be anything other than himself. He didn't have to put on too much of a show with Sven, didn't have to pretend to be the stalwart captain or the nervous child, or the old friend who just wanted to relief the sexual pressure. He could be cruel or kind, fast or slow, harsh or gentle, because _he_ wanted it that way, because that was what _he_ felt like doing. He'd never had that before, never been given such freedom. It was exhilarating. It was addictive. It was frightening.

Sven moaned, deep in his throat, and lowered his head. His body shook as he came and he cried out in a surprisingly high and breathy voice. Keith felt Sven's muscles contract around his cock, felt the tremors of Sven's pleasure travel through him, and he cried out, too, and filled the condom with his cum. He lay on Sven for a long moment, breathing hard, waiting until the blood stopped pounding in his ears. When he'd calmed down enough, he pulled out and peeled the condom off, throwing it into the garbage can. He lay on his back and stared up into the shadows. He could hear Sven breathing softly beside him, almost asleep, body relaxed.

 _I'm thinking too much. It's probably just the sex.._ Keith slid out of bed as carefully as he could, not wanting to disturb Sven. He grabbed his cigarettes from the bedside table and walked over to the window. The air conditioning was cool against his sweat-damp skin and he regretted, momentarily, not putting on a shirt or some pants. But it was too much of an effort to go back to the bed and grab some clothing, so he just kept walking. He opened the window until he could sit on the sill, letting the smoke of his cigarette waft away into the cloudy night sky.

Sven moved on the bed and the sound of the cheap cotton sheets rubbing together was surprisingly loud. Keith looked over and thought, idly, that he probably should have made Sven clean himself up before falling to sleep. But Sven always looked so damn cute when he was sleeping, so innocent and at ease.

Keith flicked the butt of his cigarette out the window. He stretched, lifting his arms high above his head until his fingers tingled and his shoulders popped. The smell of his cigarette made him sneeze, lightly, and he wrinkled his nose at the thought of going to bed smelling of stale smoke. _Idiot. Should have thought of that_ before _smoking a cigarette._ He looked back at the bed and at Sven, and the thought of taking Sven in the shower, surrounded by warmth and wetness, made him shiver with desire. He wanted to mingle the noise of sex with the sounds of water hitting their bodies, to press Sven against the wall of the shower so hard that the tiles left deep bruises on his back. To fuck Sven until he cried, until he begged Keith to stop, until he blushed with shame and desire every time their eyes met.

 _Shit. I'm such a pervert._

He crawled onto the bed and kissed the back of Sven's neck, let his hand mold to the warm curve of Sven's shoulder. "Hey," he whispered. "Wake up."

"Mmph." Sven twitched and rolled over further, burying his face into the pillow. The cotton sheet slid off him, exposing his imperfect back, smooth skin marred by all the scars of life and war.

"Come on. Let's take a shower."

Sven blinked slowly and rolled onto his back. He brushed the hair out of his eyes and Keith had to bite his lip to keep himself from taking Sven right there while he looked so delightfully disheveled. "Shower?" Sven said. "What, together?"

"Of course." Keith slid off the bed and grabbed Sven's hand. He pulled Sven upright and tugged, if not entirely gently then not as roughly as he could have. "It's boring when you shower alone." He tugged on Sven's hand again and Sven let himself be pulled off the bed and into the shower.

"Hmm. I never thought of showers as being a source of entertainment."

"That's just because you've never showered with me."

*

It was Tuesday and so tonight Hunk was the one grunting and sweating above him, large hands holding open his legs and baring him to the uncaring world. He had a large cock and it was almost painful to be fucked by him, but Keith didn't really mind. He liked pain, sometimes, and if, occasionally, Hunk got a little too carried away and his large hands wrapped themselves around Keith's neck and squeezed, well, that was all right too. It was better that Hunk got carried away when fucking Keith than when he fucked Pidge. Hunk needed this, needed to be a little cruel in sex and he thought that Pidge was too small, too young to be able to handle the harsh edge that made pleasure so sweet. Keith knew differently, but he didn't want to shatter Hunk's illusions. Hunk needed to think that _somebody_ in their fucked up little family was normal.

But.

It hurt, a little, to be used by someone he liked. He'd never expected this strange, internal pain, this ache that was connected to sex and yet not at all enjoyable. Until now all of his partners had been mere steppingstones, ways to get as far from the pyres as possible. And now that it was different, now that the men who came to him weren't just things to be used and discarded, it hurt to be nothing more than a convenience. But he was too far gone back out of this now, to refuse his team when they came, sheepish and hard, to his door.

"Hey." The pain of Hunk's large hand squeezing his chin brought Keith back to the task at hand, and he looked up into Hunk's dopey brown eyes, so innocent, so full of shame at his desire to hurt. "Is it. Do you want to stop?"

"No." Keith pushed back against Hunk, put on the pure, wanton expression that he knew drove Hunk mad, let his voice go high and breathless. "Please. Fuck me. Harder." He wrapped his arms around Hunk and rubbed against the hard planes of Hunk's stomach. "Please."

"Nnh."

Hunk bit down on Keith's shoulder, sinking his teeth in until he drew blood. Keith gasped and arched his back and shuddered when he came, hot and sticky. Hunk continued to fuck him, spreading Keith's cum across both their chests. It was unpleasant, and perhaps the reason Hunk came not long after him was because he wanted to end the contact. He rolled off Keith as soon as he was done, and stared up at the ceiling. "Sorry."

"It's okay." Keith handed him the box of tissues. He didn't watch as Hunk cleaned himself up and got dressed.

"Sorry," Hunk said again, and he traced the bite mark on Keith's shoulder with gentle fingers that hurt more than the bite and the fucking ever could.

"I'm fine. Really." Keith smiled his perfected smile and if it didn't put Hunk at ease then it at least it made it easier for Hunk to turn and walk to the door. "Don't forget, you've got guard duty tomorrow morning."

"Yeah. I won't forget."

Keith dropped the smile at the soft _shick_ of the door closing and grabbed the cigarettes that Hunk hated but he needed. It took two cigarettes -- harsh, bitter, barely filtered -- before the non-corporeal ache faded away and the pain of his too-tangible body took over. He levered himself up off the stained sheets and winced his way to the shower. The hot water washed away the cum but not the pain.

There was a small bottle of little white pills on the counter, and Keith hesitated for just a moment before opening it up and shaking one, two, three little pills out into his hand. He swallowed them without water, using the bitter powder as a chaser for his bitter cigarettes. The muscles relaxants worked quickly, and it was all he could do to strip the sheets from his bed before he collapsed on the bare mattress, naked and wet, and sunk into a deep and dreamless sleep, wrapped up in empty peace.

*

On Wednesday, Pidge ambushed him in the library, and it took a moment for Keith to pull his attention from an old diary of some forgotten king that discussed a 'Voltan' to the mouth that was doing incredible things to his cock. Fortunately, his body could react quicker than his mind, and his fingers were already threading their way through the soft curls on Pidge's head. The part of his mind that wasn't occupied with warmth and wetness and pretending to be the stalwart captain that Pidge needed was filled with guilt and sadness. Pidge was far too good at this, far too adept for someone who could barely be called an adult. Keith wondered who had trained Pidge's mouth, who had taught him that it was best to hum just so, to lick here, to suck there, to tease and bob and drive all thoughts but lust and want to the back of the mind. He came, imagining Hawkins in his place, imagining Pidge naked and unbroken, innocent, used.

Pidge swallowed and licked his lips. He smiled up between his curls and Keith reminded himself once more that it wasn't real, that he was just someone with whom Pidge could drop the innocent act.

"Thanks Cap'n." He crawled out from between Keith's legs and looked down at the diary Keith had been reading. "More research? Isn't this stuff a bit old?"

"Yeah, maybe." Keith tucked himself away and zipped up his pants. "Still, every little bit of knowledge helps. You need to know your strengths--" He grabbed Pidge by the waist and easily lifted him up onto the desk. He pulled off Pidge's bandana with his teeth and licked the soft, white smoothness of the suddenly exposed neck. Pidge shivered and let his head fall back, exposing more of his body to Keith's questing lips. "--as well as your weaknesses."

Pidge laughed, a surprisingly young and fresh sound, as Keith unbuckled his belt, slid his clothing off. He tasted sweet and young, and as he sucked and licked, Keith found himself noticing the freckles scattered across Pidge's abdomen. How many other men had noticed these? How many other men had used this boy, broken him? He shouldn't be adding to that tally, shouldn't be using Pidge like he'd been used. Pidge needed to be mended, to be taught that sex wasn't the only way to advance, that he was good for more than pleasure.

But Keith wasn't the person who could teach Pidge that, and Hunk couldn't know about this side of Pidge; just like Pidge couldn't know about the pain Hunk liked to inflict. If he could be a buffer, be the thing that let them mend, then he didn't mind this.

Pidge's gasps tore through him like jagged glass.

*

Keith spread his arms and felt the vast emptiness of his bed. It was Thursday and he was alone, as usual. He wondered if his team actually had secret meetings where they planned out the schedule of who fucked him when. Sven on Mondays and Saturdays, Pidge on Wednesdays, Hunk on Tuesdays, Lance twice a month on Fridays. And Thursday and Sunday to rest. It bugged him, a little, that his sexual habits were discussed so freely. He didn't really want his team to think of him as a slut, as their communal fuck toy. Still, it was convenient. He didn't have to worry about being interrupted, or having to explain to Pidge why there were bite marks on his inner thighs. In some ways, tacit understanding of their whole fucked up situation was almost a blessing.

He wondered if Pidge was aroused by the idea of using Keith the day after Hunk. If Pidge could taste Hunk's cum, know where Hunk had touched, had tasted.

Keith slid his hand down his body, tugged experimentally at his cock. The thought was arousing in its perversion, but his body was too tired to do anything except stir, faintly. He took his hand away and rolled over onto his side. The stiff sheets were cold against his skin.

Keith closed his eyes, and tried not to dream.

*

Sex with Lance was always a battle. It began at the door, where Lance would latch onto his mouth with a fierce silence, pushing his way into the room. They would fight, wordlessly, struggling to secure dominance. Sometimes, Lance would win, and Keith would be pushed down to his knees -- sometimes on the bed, if they made it that far, but usually on the floor -- and Lance would fuck him, fast and hot and without love. Sometimes Keith won, and he'd punish Lance with his body, drawing out Lance's pleasure, going so slow and gentle that Lance would cry bitter tears of want and fear. Keith hated the nights that Lance came to his door, hated being the thing that Lance needed but despised. Hated the way Lance would avoid him afterwards, the way he slunk out of Keith's room, ashamed of his weakness.

But sex with Lance was the only time Keith felt he was ever any good. Fucking and fighting all rolled into one. His two best attributes, and it seemed only fitting to use them on Lance. Lance who'd defended him, Lance who'd befriended him, Lance who'd come to him, shamefaced and stuttering and asking if Keith wouldn't mind helping him relieve the tension of being a hero.

And now they fought, here, twice a month. They fought and Keith didn't pay enough attention to their struggle, because Lance tripped him, suddenly, and he fell, hard. His right knee twisted awkwardly, trying to go two ways for a moment, and when it finally followed his body, it throbbed in dull red pulses.

"Ahh." Keith braced his hands on the ground and winced against the unwelcome ache.

"Are you all right?" The words were shocking, not in their content but in their existence. There was no talking in this unlovely dance of theirs, and Keith was frightened by the change. "I can--"

"No. I'm fine." Keith pulled off his pants, moving as if his knee didn't scream in protest every time it bent. Lance needed this. "You've won. Unless you'd rather be taken, tonight..."

Lance flushed dark red beneath his tan and his mouth clicked shut. He grabbed Keith, roughly, and thrust. The metal studs of his pants scraped against Keith's skin.

It was over sooner than usual, and Lance's step as he left beat a sharp staccato against the cold floor. Keith lay still on the floor, Lance's spunk cooling on his skin. He breathed, in then out, and thought, once more, that he should have made Lance use a condom. He pushed himself into a sitting position and looked at the mess they'd left on the floor. His eyes prickled and he rubbed at them roughly with his arm. They prickled again, and a burning hot tear traced the proof of his own inadequacy down his cheek.

"Fuck."

 _It's just my knee hurting. It's just my knee._

*

His knee hurt the next morning, too, hurt more than it did the night before. He walked stiffly, and lied fluidly, and the minute he could, he fled to his room. The smoke of his cigarettes collected at the ceiling and he rested it on the lip of the ashtray he balanced on his left knee. The two painkillers Gorma had given him sat untaken on his bedside table, next to the glass of stout he'd smuggled out of the kitchen.

Keith picked up the glass, breathed in the rich, grainy odor. He took a sip, and it wasn't like the stout he'd had as a child, but it was close enough to bring back mostly forgotten memories of a time when he hadn't been good at anything.

Crazy old Father McCuller had sworn by stout, claiming that its existence was definitive proof a benevolent god. Father McCuller had brewed his own brand in the basement of the rundown cathedral, using holy water and the baptismal basin. He'd given small glasses of his brew to the kids who'd come begging at his door, making them sit and listen to his drunken sermons on love and faith, and sing out meaningless hymns to a God that was as cold and distant as the tall metal walls that caged them in.

He took another sip, longer, and tried to remember what hymns he'd been forced to sing just to get a mouthful of stout. He tried to remember if the crazy drunkard had died before or after he'd taken up whoring.

The door opened, and Keith turned, surprised. He hadn't expected Sven to come tonight, not after he'd stopped Sven in the hallway and muttered something meaningless about his leg.

"Ah. Sorry." Keith put down the glass and took the ashtray off his knee. "Sorry. I wasn't expecting you." He laughed, lightly, and smiled emptily. "I don't think that I can do anything tonight. Sorry."

"You know, there used to be a time when I could come into your room and you _didn't_ expect to have sex with me." Sven's weight made the bed dip, and he plucked the cigarette from the ashtray and put it to his lips. He took a long, deep drag and blew out perfect smoke rings.

"Oh yeah." Keith laughed again, and it wasn't quite as fake as it had been. "Feels like that was years ago."

"Mmm." Sven picked up Keith's legs and put them in his lap. "Does it hurt?"

"No," Keith lied. He reached forward and took back his cigarette. "So. What did you want to talk about?"

"Me? Nothing. I just wondered if you had anything you wanted to say." Sven rubbed Keith's knee, massaging it gently. His hands were warm.

"No. Not really." The smoke from the cigarette rose in lazy spirals to the ceiling. Keith wished, idly, that he could blow smoke rings like Sven. The first man he'd been with was the one who got him smoking, but he hadn't been able to blow smoke rings either. The silence dragged on, and Keith found himself desperate for anything to break the quiet.

"Hey Sven," he said too loudly. "Why do you fuck me? Is just because you're horny, like Lance?"

"You don't know?" Keith shook his head and Sven smiled a strange, almost bitter smile. "It's a secret."

"Oh." Keith lit a new cigarette, watched it burn for a moment. He wondered if the fire of the cigarette would feel at all like the funeral pyres. The high-pitched whine of children's voice raised in a disharmonic hymn filled his ears. "Hey Sven."

"Hmm?"

"Do you know that hymn, 'Amazing Grace'?"

"Yeah."

"Can you sing it?" Keith stubbed the cigarette out and closed his eyes. His calf spasmed under Sven's hands, and he felt a sudden and incongruous shame that Sven should see him so weak, so human.

In the darkness behind his eyes, the roughness of Sven's voice as he sang felt like a forgotten caress. It wasn't beautiful, but it drowned out the echo of his memories. It wasn't salvation, but it was a salve. He felt tears gather and for once he didn't mind if they fell.

"Ah," he sighed, when Sven trailed off at last. "Thanks."

And he smiled, ugly and real.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fic that spawned an entire arc. And this is not a happy arc. This is the counter-point to the Overs 'verse. This is, as I like to call it, the Arc o' Whore!Keith -- or, when I'm feeling particularly annoyed with it, the Arc o' Doom, or the Arc That Ate Manhattan. It's a long, involved, complicated, painful arc and it all started because I wanted a fic with Keith as a whore and a throwaway line prompted questions and, yeah. I doubt this series will ever be truly ended, but I do love this fic and so I'm posting it here.


End file.
